


Russian Roulette

by AustenlySummers



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Literature, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Russian Roulette, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustenlySummers/pseuds/AustenlySummers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A RussiaXAmerica fanfiction that's been bouncing around in my head for a while.  Please comment below if you like it!  </p>
    </blockquote>





	Russian Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> A RussiaXAmerica fanfiction that's been bouncing around in my head for a while.  Please comment below if you like it!  

            America couldn’t decide which was worse: 

            The cold metal pressed against his forehead or the warm hand crawling up his thigh.  Whichever it was, it was bad.  Really bad.  As in ‘I’m going to fucking die here’ bad.  America took another deep breath and rose his eyes to meet those of his assailant’s.  Whatever warmth he had hoped to find wasn’t there.  Appealing to this man’s better nature would get him nowhere…because this man didn’t _have_ a better nature.  

            “Fuck,” America cursed aloud, tone bitter.

            The other man smiled—always smiled—and a faint click resonated in the small room as the revolver against America’s forehead was cocked.  America squeezed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth as he expected his life to end with a gunshot…

            Another faint click, and the revolver pulled away.

            “Very good, da~” the Russian mused, earning a glare from the American.  

            “Very good?” America repeated, teeth clenched.  “I could have died, you idiot!”

            “That’s the fun part, da~” Russia chirped, giving the cylinder a spin before pressing the gun against his own temple.  He pulled the trigger, expression a study of serenity.  

            America winced, but Russia just sat there, stupid grin plastered all over his stupid face, completely alive.  It pissed America off—Russia and all the smiling he was doing.

            “Sadistic communist bastard!” America spat.

            Russia remained unfazed.

            “I’m going to fucking kill you!” 

            Russia chuckled, fingering the revolver in his hands.  He mused quietly, “Will you now, Alfred?  Do you think you could?”

            He glanced up to meet America’s gaze.  He smiled, pressed the revolver against America’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.  Silence.  America could breathe again.

            “You’re sick,” America hissed.

            And yet, they both couldn’t deny what they both already knew.  America grit his teeth as Russia’s hand slithered up his thigh, fingers pressing against his jeans.  The Russian grinned and noted, “You’re enjoying this little game, Alfred.”

            “I am not!” America seethed, warding off the inevitable flush rising beneath his collar.  

            Russia giggled, “You like this, da~”

            “You’re wrong!”

            “You like being victimized…”

            “No.”

            “Vulnerable…”

            “Stop.”

            “Violated…”

            “Will you shut up already?!” Alfred screamed.

            Ivan giggled.  He raised the revolver to his forehead and stated, “We shall see.”

            He winked at America as he spun the cylinder and squeezed the trigger.  Nothing.  America swore under his breath.

            “Don’t look so discouraged little American~” Russia cooed.  He leaned closer and America could have sworn the temperature dropped by ten degrees.  He shivered.  Russia nestled the revolver under Alfred’s chin, tipping the American’s head up.  America attempted to look away, but Russia’s fingers furled in his hair, forcing America to meet his icy gaze.  

            “What the hell do you want?” America hissed.  He had an overwhelming urge to punch Russia’s lights out, and he would have too if he wasn’t bound to a chair with an array of heavy duty cable, industrial cable ties, and thick lengths of rope and chain, making it nearly impossible for even America to escape.

            Russia’s response to that was a cheerful, “Oh, nothing.”  He giggled.  

            Once again, America was at the mercy of fate.  He squeezed his eyes shut as Russia pulled the trigger.

            Click.

            America exhaled, breath shaky.  He opened his eyes to find Russia inches away from his face.  His breath reeked of vodka.  America made a face and asked, “Ever heard of personal space, commie?” 

            He tried to scoot his chair away, though not very successfully.  Russia chuckled and only leaned closer.  America glared at him as the Russian moved the revolver to his temple.  

            “If you shoot yourself, I’m going to get your idiot brains all over me,” America remarked dryly.

            Russia spun the cylinder.  He noted cheerfully, “I’ll take my chances.”  He pulled the trigger.

            Click.  Silence.  

            “How do you find this fun?” America wanted to know.

            “The same way you do, da~” Russia replied with a knowing grin.  His hand settled on America’s thigh once more, and he delighted in watching Alfred’s expression grow more and more flustered the farther up he allowed his fingers to wander.  

            “H-hey…hands to yourself…” America warned.  

            Russia cocked his head to the side, giggling light-heartedly at the American.  He asked all-too-cheerfully, “You want me to stop, da~” 

            “Yeah, I want you to fucking stop,” America snapped. 

            Russia smiled and inquired, “But what will little America do if I don’t, hm?”  He crinkled his eyebrows together, feigning concern, and murmured, “Looks like little America is a little…tied up at the moment.”  He giggled at his own joke, one America did not find amusing.  Russia smiled, shook his head and rose the gun to America’s forehead.  He noted, “That joke never gets old, da~”

            After briefly wondering just how many other unfortunate nations had happened to hear that ‘joke’, America told Russia, “It’s fucking stupid.”

            Russia shrugged nonchalantly.  He settled his finger over the revolver’s trigger and squeezed.  Nothing happened.  

            “Are you just going to keep doing this until someone dies?” America questioned.

            “Until someone wins,” Russia answered, giving the cylinder a spin.  

            “What happens if I win?” America wanted to know

            Russia met his eyes with a steady stare.  He replied, “Then you win.”

            “That’s it?”

            Russia nodded.

            “This is stupid.”

            “Is it?” Russia mused.  He pressed the gun to his forehead and pulled the trigger.  America just gave him a blank stare.  “Your turn,” Russia chirped, whirling the cylinder and pointing the revolver at America.  America didn’t even have the decency to look concerned at this point.  Russia frowned slightly.  He inquired, “You’re not scared?”

            America shook his head.  He explained shortly, “What’s the point?  Either way I’m dead.”  He glared at Russia.  Russia tapped the revolver against his chin as he pondered America’s statement. 

            “Then I change the rules, da~”

            America furrowed his eyebrows together and replied, “What?”

            “I change rules,” Russia repeated.  “If Russia stops game, I get little America all to myself, da~”

            “I don’t know—don’t want to know—what’s going on in that perverted head of yours, but whatever the fuck ‘get America all to yourself’ means, I don’t want to be any part of it,” America asserted.

            Russia shrugged and settled the gun against America’s temple once more.  He replied, “Very well, little America~” He squeezed the trigger.  Silence.  

            “Goddamn it,” America muttered through gritted teeth.  Either way this was going to end badly.  Either way he would be dead…or worse…but would he risk death compared to whatever sick torture Russia had in mind for him?  He was stronger than Russia, much stronger.  If he could only get himself untied…

            Russia watched America struggle against his binds momentarily; he giggled and asked, “Uncomfortable, America?”    

            “No thanks to you,” America snapped. 

            Russia put down the revolver, balancing it on America’s knees.  America glanced down at the gun, then back up at Russia.  He inquired slowly, “What are you doing?”

            “You don’t want to play, da~”

            America cast Russia a suspicious look and answered, “No, but…”

            “Then we will stop.”

            Russia leaned back in his chair, cocked his head and grinned at America.  America had no clue what Russia was up to, but he wouldn’t let his guard down just yet.  He asked Russia, “Are you just going to sit there and stare or are you going to untie me?”

            “Silly America,” Russia laughed.  “Why would I do something like that?”

            “So I can kick your commie ass,” America shot back.

            Russia tutted and shook his head.  He noted, “I stopped, just like you wanted, da~” He reached over and picked up the revolver.  “Or would you rather play, America?” He rose the gun to his forehead, surveying America’s expression.  America just glared.  Russia pulled the trigger.  He lowered the revolver, weighed it thoughtfully in his palm.  He noted, “You are not very bright, are you, America?”  

            “Hey!  What’s that supposed to mean?!” America shot back. 

            Russia rose the revolver and aimed it straight at America’s head.  He squeezed off a series of eight shots, none of which affected America whatsoever, other than give him a fleeting moment of panic.  When he realized what Russia had been talking about, America exclaimed, “You bastard!  There was never a bullet in that fucking gun at all was there?”

            “Very smart, little America~” Russia cooed.  He leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on America’s forehead.  

            “Fuck off!” America demanded.

            Russia giggled.  He tossed the gun over his shoulder, obviously bored with his so called game.  He scooted his chair closer to America’s and settled his hands on America’s thighs.  He inquired softly, “Now, little America, what game should we play next?"


End file.
